


still i pray (to what i cannot see)

by asp-iro (sunfiree)



Category: The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Sick Fic, with a bit of Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-07-13 16:16:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16021493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunfiree/pseuds/asp-iro
Summary: “Don’t go,” he hears a quiet, fervent voice near whisper, and it takes him a moment to realise it came from his own mouth. His cheeks burn with humiliation, and there’s apologies on the tip of his tongue, already on the way of tripping out of his mouth.“I’m not going anywhere,” says Harrow, cutting off Callum’s awkward stuttering. He looks surprised, eyes wide and eyebrows raised, but there’s a smile playing around the corners of his mouth, and it helps calm some of the embarrassment Callum’s feeling.Callum is sick and King Harrow worries.





	still i pray (to what i cannot see)

**Author's Note:**

> title from "eugene" by sufjan stevens.

He wakes up to a cool hand pressed against his forehead, steady and firm. Its weight is familiar, and he can't help but lean into it, chasing the soothing touch. He cracks heavy eyelids open to try to identify the person it belongs to, and the dull pounding in his head intensifies at the light suddenly streaming in. Squinting, he brings his hand up to rub his eyes reflexively, and King Harrow’s worried face stares back at him, the lines etched in his forehead even deeper than usual.

“King Harrow?” asks Callum, and the sensation of his voice scraping against his throat makes him wince.

 “Callum,” says the King. “Why didn't you tell me you were ill?”

 And Callum suddenly realises why his head aches, and he simultaneously feels like he's freezing and on fire. He’d been feeling off for a few days, a persistent itch beneath his skin that he couldn’t scratch, and the sleepless nights had caught up with him when he’d face planted into one of the library tables in the middle of drawing. The librarian that likes him best had woken him up and urged him to go to the infirmary or she’d tell his stepfather. At the threat, he’d obeyed, somewhat reluctantly, and the court physician had declared him ill, putting him on bedrest for the foreseeable future.

“You were busy,” he says. _I didn't think it would matter,_ he thinks.

There's a flash of anger in Harrow’s face, and Callum’s so unused to the expression directed at him that he flinches back*. Harrow’s eyes widen, and he jerks forward to take Callum's hand in his own, safe and comforting in all the ways he always is. In the ways Callum treasures. He feels all the tension in his spine drain out of him at the soft touch, and he relaxes into the pillows, quietly sighing.

“You know I would leave my work in an instant if either you or Ezran were ill,” Harrow says earnestly, squeezing Callum’s hand.

“I know you would,” _if Ezran were ill._

Harrow smiles, somewhat ruefully, and he runs his thumb over Callum's knuckles.

“Speaking of Ezran, I think he’s off to steal some jelly tarts for you,” he says with a wide grin, skin wrinkling around his mouth and eyes, and Callum's suddenly hit with a vision of what his brother is going to look like, in a few decades’ time. “I told him they're not going to help with your fever but you know Ez. Hard-headed,” his eyes soften, “just like your mother.”

Callum swallows, even though his throat suddenly runs dry.

Harrow suddenly leans down, pressing his lips against Callum's forehead, and his heart just about stops in his chest. He can't help but lean into the touch, but there's something in the back of his mind, the thing that keeps him up at night, that says _don’t get used to this_ and _he's not yours_ and _he just pities you._ He squeezes his eyes shut, savouring the attention but wanting to escape it as well. The logical part of Callum knows that Harrow does feel at least some measure of affection for him - he wouldn't act like this if he didn't - but he doesn't want to - to _hope_.

Harrow pulls back slightly, but he doesn't move his face away, just lingering in Callum’s space, as if he's about to say something. But then he thinks better of it, and pulls all the way back, and he's turning away, _he's leaving Callum all by himself_ -

“Don't go,” he hears a quiet, fervent voice near whisper, and it takes him a moment to realise it came from his own mouth. His cheeks burn with humiliation, and there's apologies on the tip of his tongue, already on the way of tripping out of his mouth.  
  
“I'm not going anywhere,” says Harrow, cutting off Callum's awkward stuttering. He looks surprised, eyes wide and eyebrows raised, but there’s a smile playing around the corners of his mouth, and it helps calm some of Callum’s embarrassment.

“Have you had dinner yet?” he suddenly asks.

“No,” says Callum, grateful for the topic change. The thought of eating had made him so nauseous he was almost gagging when the scent of dinner had wafted up to his alcove in the library, where he had been drawing earlier.

“Wait here,” he says. “I'm going to fetch some porridge from the kitchen for you. I’ll be back in a flash.”

And Callum’s alone again. He closes his eyes, leaning back into the pillows, one arm over his forehead. Silently, he berates himself. He _always_ acts like such an idiot around King Harrow, it would almost be funny if he didn’t hate himself so much for it. Harrow cares about him, obviously, after all he _is_ Ez’s brother, and the son of his late wife, but that didn’t mean he was his - his _dad,_ or anything like that. He _wasn’t_ , even if he sometimes acted like it, and even if, secretly, Callum kind of, maybe, sort-of _wanted_ him to be.

The door bangs open, and he’s shaken out of his thoughts. The court physician enters, her long white overcoat swishing around her feet as she stalks over to him, shoving a thermometer into his mouth. After a minute she pulls it out from under his tongue, takes a look at the reading and tuts. “You’ll need to stay here a while longer,” she says, none too pleased.

“Okay,” says Callum, slightly intimidated.

The woman’s eyes narrow. “I just saw King Harrow leave,” she says. “Did you call him here? You know he’s a busy man.”

“No, he didn’t,” says Harrow, walking back in with a tray clenched in his hands.“I was looking for my son when I didn’t see him at dinner and Claudia informed me he’d come down here.” The words are matter-of-fact, but there’s an edge to his voice Callum only ever hears when he sits in on council meetings and Harrow’s talking to his political advisors, a polite smile on his face that never reaches his eyes.

The physician gives Harrow a tight smile. It looks more like a grimace. “He’s fine,” she says. “He’s got a bit of a temperature, but he should be right as rain in a few days.”

Callum can’t help but make a face at that - the thought of spending another few days the way he’s feeling right now, as if he got run over by several horses and then had a practice spar with Soren in a bad mood, was...not pleasant, to say the least.

Harrow sets down the tray in Callum’s lap and then sits down in the chair at his bedside. “Of course he will!” he says. “Just in time for sword training!”

Callum groans at that, and Harrow chuckles, low and quiet.

The physician’s mouth pinches, then she bows, says “Your Highness,” and leaves. The sound of the door banging shut echoes across the room, and Callum half-heartedly pokes his porridge around in the bowl with his spoon.

“Don’t do that,” scolds Harrow lightly. “You need to eat.”

“But porriiiiidge,” he whines. He’s sick; he’s allowed to act like a spoiled little prince _sometimes._

“I put four teaspoons of sugar in there,” says Harrow, amused. “I have actually met you, you know.”

Callum brings the spoon up to his lips, and the mushy texture of the porridge feels as horrible as it always does against his tongue, but there’s a burst of sweetness that almost balances it out.

“Thank you,” he says, oddly touched, then proceeds to dig into his food when he realises how hungry he actually is.  

Harrow’s brought a few sheets of parchment and his quill and inkwell with him, so he puts on his spectacles and gets to work while Callum eats. It’s surprisingly not as awkward as he’d thought it’d be, and instead it’s just _comfortable._ The room is almost silent, save for the scratch of Harrow’s quill and the clink of Callum’s spoon against the bowl, and the sun is just getting ready to set, casting a warm amber glow inside the room through the window.

Soon, when he’s half way through his food, he can feel his eyes close against his will, and he tries to blink them open. Then someone’s lifting the tray off his lap, and pushing him back into the pillows so he’s laying down. “Sleep now,” says Harrow softly, tucking him in.

Callum resists, rolling over on the bed, unfamiliar antiseptic scent stinging his nose. “I don't like staying here,” he mumbles, half-asleep.

A heavy hand drops onto the back of his head, running through his hair briefly. “Do you want to go back to your room?” Harrow asks.

“Um,” he says. He’d like to be back in his bed, but the thought of walking in his current state makes his head spin.

“Actually, I have a better idea,” says Harrow, and Callum just _knows_ without even looking that he’s stroking his beard, the way he does when he _thinks_ he's just had an incredible idea but it’s actually really a very bad one. Callum had last seen it when Harrow had thought a great prank would be to switch Callum’s practice sword with an identical, but much heavier one, and he’d ended up dropping it on Soren’s foot, putting him out of commision for nearly a month.

Viren had not been pleased. Claudia had laughed. Soren had enjoyed a month of lounging in bed and flirting with the nurses.  

Harrow lifts up the bedsheets, and Callum shivers, but Harrow’s already slipping one arm over his shoulders and another around his waist and lifting him up against his warm chest. Callum lets out an alarmingly high-pitched squeak in surprise and he quickly wraps his arms around Harrow's neck so he won't fall.

“King Harrow!” he says, embarrassed at being picked up as if he didn’t weigh an ounce.

The King tightens his grip and starts walking. “I haven't held you like this since you were a little boy,” he says. “Well. You're still a little boy. Since you were a littler boy, then.”

That startles a laugh out of Callum, and he smushes his face against Harrow's chest to smother the sound. “I'm not a little boy,” he says, indignant. “Did you know I beat Soren in training yesterday?”

“Oh, really?”

“Well,” he says, carefully. “Ez distracted him with Bait and then I stabbed him.”

Harrow laughs, and Callum can feel the vibration against where his cheek is pressed up to Harrow's chest. He thinks he should feel more embarrassed than he actually is, held like a child in his stepfather's arms, but instead he just feels oddly pleased and...safe. Not even the stares they’re getting from the various knights and servants in the hallway can take that away.

The sound of Harrow’s heartbeat against his ear and the rocking motion of being carried makes him close his eyes as they start the staircase and he’s half asleep again - at least until he’s being set down gently onto a bed a few minutes later. The bed’s not his own - Callum opens his eyes to the sight of his stepfather’s room. Harrow pulls the blankets up to his chin, then puts his hand against his back and groans exaggeratedly.

“Callum!” he exclaims. “I think you need to lay off the jelly tarts! My back is _killing_ me.”

“Maybe you're just getting old,” he teases back, sleepiness loosening his tongue.

“Sometimes I think I am,” says Harrow, and his voice doesn’t sound teasing to Callum anymore. It just sounds almost sad, and Callum wants to snatch his words back, but he can’t, and he winces internally at his inability to recognise where the boundaries they’ve drawn their relationship in start and end.

“What book would you like?” Harrow asks suddenly, fingers brushing over the covers on the bookshelf in the corner of his room.

“Anything you want,” says Callum. “As long as it's not about sword fighting.”

“I’ve got the perfect one,” Harrow says, fingers snapping together. He picks a dusty tome off one of the shelves at the bottom, and then walks over to the bed. He stops, hesitates. Then, he lifts the covers and crawls into the bed next to him, their shoulders just barely brushing. When Callum shivers at the rush of cold air, he feels Harrow’s arm twitch, still, and then move suddenly to wrap around his shoulders, pulling him snugly against Harrow’s side.

“Are you cold?” asks Harrow, voice low and soft, and Callum thinks there’s something more to the question, but he can’t think too deeply about that right now, not when there’s a yawn already crawling up from throat and his eyes keep falling shut.

“I’m fine,” he says instead, thinking that “fine” could not even come close to the range of emotions he’s feeling right now. “I’m great,” he corrects, and he feels careful fingers brush a few sweaty strands of his hair out of his face.

“That’s good,” Harrow says, and Callum can hear the smile in his voice. He clears his throat, and picks up the book, turning to the first page.

Callum suddenly feels like a child again, sitting outside the door to Ez's room just months after their mother had died, ear pressed against the door, listening to Harrow read a bedtime story to his brother. The distant sound of his steady voice had comforted Callum, and it took only the fear of rejection to stop him opening the door and joining the rest of his family. He can vividly remember how he felt like he was intruding, even through the thickness of the wooden door and a concrete wall.

It’s one of the best memories he has, in the end. A few days into the routine, Callum had accidentally fallen asleep against the door. He’d woken in a start as white-hot pain flared through his forehead; Harrow had opened the door from the other side, unaware of him sleeping against it, and it had hit his head as it swung outwards. Before he could even cry out in pain, Harrow had scooped him up into his arms, rubbing his back soothingly as he carried Callum to the infirmary.

 “You can join us any time, Callum,” he’d said later, as he bandaged Callum’s forehead, fingers big and rough against his skin, but so, so careful. He had blinked back stinging tears and, in that moment, he had realised that his mother's death _hadn’t_ left him all alone in the world;  _he still had a father._ The very next night, Callum had crawled into Ez’s bed, on Harrow’s left side, with Ez on the right, and they’d both looked so happy to see him that he’d almost cried. (He _did_ cry. Just a little, though.) And from then on, Harrow had read them both bedtime stories at night, until war meetings and political advisors and dragon princes had dragged him away.

 “Once upon a time, in a kingdom far, far away,” Harrow starts reading from the first page, and Callum’s eyes flutter shut as the deep voice lulls him into the first peaceful sleep he’s had since he got ill, and he doesn’t see King Harrow closing the book half way through the second page, and he doesn’t feel the press of lips against his forehead, or the fingers carding through his hair, and he definitely doesn’t hear his father whisper a quiet, reverent, “I love you, Callum,” to the still air.

**Author's Note:**

> \+ bonus 
> 
> Some time later, Callum opens his eyes, and sees the sort of pitch black darkness that only comes about when the sun’s set fully. His head is resting on his dad’s shoulder, the same position he’d fallen asleep in, but now he can feel the familiar tickle of Ez’s hair against the skin of his back, where his nightshirt has ridden up. He settles back in, drawing the covers up higher over his sleeping family with the hand that’s not holding Ez’s, and he falls back to sleep, content. 
> 
>  
> 
> *harrow's not angry at callum. he's angry that callum thinks he would be too busy to look after him when he's sick. but callum doesn't realise. 
> 
>    
> come yell at me on [tumblr](https://asp-iro.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/aaspiiro) about this beautiful family


End file.
